by Warren Adler
"Are you kidding?" she said as if she were insulted. "Silence is the given of my business." She sounded more like a professor than a prostitute, which did not augur well for what he hoped to achieve. But she did consent to the double fee.
"You'll earn it," he told her.
"I always do."
He gave her specific instructions. Above all, he did not want her to be seen entering the building. He had calculated that most of the people in the building were off to work, except, of course, for Jenny Burns, who, he assured himself, would probably be in the kitchen making meat loaf. He chuckled at the flash of humor, which calmed him somewhat. Not that he wasn't concerned about her spotting them. He would be very uncomfortable about anyone living in the building possessing knowledge of his infidelity. People gossiped. There was no denying that.
Jerry O'Hara and Bob Schwartz, the homosexual couple who shared the ground-floor apartment, could offer a threat of revelation only because O'Hara talked too much, jibber-jabbered in his singsong fey way, not caring what came out of his mouth. They and their damned cat, whom they had named, appropriately, Peter. He was a tabby, a kind of little tiger with the stripes to match and a fierce wanderlust instinct. He hadn't been neutered, which might be expected from Jerry and Bob. They were always searching for him, and the constant drumbeat of "Where's Peter?" could rattle the teeth of everyone in the building. More than once Godfrey had begged them to fix him, as did almost everyone.
"How would you like it done to you?" was Jerry O'Hara's invariable response when any of the neighbors had the temerity to complain. Jerry worked as a showroom salesman for a Seventh Avenue clothing manufacturer, and Bob Schwartz was a partner in a design firm. They were rarely home during the day. Godfrey had sold them two paintings by Hollander, which was their only point of neighborly reference. Godfrey would hate to have them know anything about what he was up to, although he felt reasonably secure that they would be out, especially at that hour.
The same was true of the Sterns, Sally and Barry. Barry was in real estate in Brooklyn, dealing apparently in slum-type property, and Sally was an accountant with one of the Big Five accounting firms, he couldn't remember which. He and Terry decided that they were workaholics on the basis of how much time their son, Teddy, spent alone. He was about sixteen and went to some fancy private school in Manhattan. There didn't seem much risk in the Sterns being home.
As for Myrna Davis, who lived across the hall from them, she was off in the wee hours every weekday and didn't return until very late. She was an associate editor for Vanity Fair who always seemed to be hassled and disorganized.
She had offered them bits and pieces of her history, mostly on the run. She had been married twice. Both had ended in divorce. And she had lived with a rather handsome middle-aged man for six months in the apartment, a Ronnie something, who rarely spoke, as if he were hiding from someone, which was probably true. He had simply disappeared.
At the moment Myrna had a mysterious weekend lover, of whom they had yet to catch a glimpse. He'd apparently arrive very late on Friday night and leave very early on Monday morning. Their routine was to send in from carryouts and never leave the apartment all weekend. He and Terry speculated that Myrna's lover was a celebrity cheating on his wife.
After one of those weekends Myrna always looked exhausted. All fucked out, they agreed. Myrna could be depended upon to be working, especially at that time of the month, deadline time.
Except for Jenny Burns, he felt reasonably secure. Jenny did not seem to be the prying type. Nevertheless, it would bother him that anyone who knew Terry might find out that he had betrayed her. That's the way people would see it, notwithstanding the mitigating circumstances.
He had let himself in the front door with his key and had walked up the stairs like a thief, counting each little squeak of the steps. The place seemed quiet. Occasionally, he knew, one or another of the tenants would have a maid in a couple of hours a day, but he didn't count them as any threat. They were mostly invisible people. Besides, they didn't know him or Terry.
His anxiety level did not decrease when Wendy finally arrived at his apartment door. He was already worrying about her leaving the building without being seen.
"Nothing untoward to report, mon capitaine," Wendy said as she entered the apartment, offering a salute.
"Voice down," he whispered, inspecting her. She was young, well endowed, with black hair and olive skin. He took her for Italian. She looked more like a student than a prostitute with a carryall slung over her shoulder.
"What's the protocol?" he asked.
"Usually payment in advance," she said, smiling coyly and shrugging. "We all have to eat."
He put two hundred-dollar bills in her palm, and she put them into the carryall, unhooking it from her shoulder.
"Where is the bedroom?" she asked.
"No," he said. "Here. On the couch."
Not in their bed, he decided. The couch seemed less culpable, a hollow idea since the entire apartment might be said to be bearing witness. Terry's presence was everywhere.
"You seem nervous," she said, taking his hand. "And your hand is like ice."
"Everything is like ice," he said nervously.
"We'll see what we can do about that."
"I have condoms," he said, placing the box on the end table beside the couch. He also had the little cup the fertility clinic had given him, hidden behind a picture on the end table within easy reach. His idea was to remove the condom at the moment of ejaculation and use the cup for storage. The clinic preferred the cup.
"I come supplied as well," she said. He sat on the couch and stood before him. He felt tense, sitting up straight, his hands on his knees. "You have an art gallery?" she asked as she began to undress.
He watched, half listening, offering perfunctory answers. He sensed a growing anger in himself as she slowly revealed what by any measure would be a sensual body. She posed and gyrated in what was certainly a provocative performance.
Then she began to undress him. He closed his eyes. He felt ashamed. He hadn't expected such a reaction, and he knew from the moment that she touched him that this would result in one more failure. Yet he allowed her to persist, and she was quite resourceful and imaginative.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"Don't be. It happens."
"So does shit."
She was kind and knew exactly what to say under such circumstances. After a while he did feel more relaxed, but empty of any excitement or reaction. He did tell her that he was going through this bout of impotency, although he could not bring himself to mention the conception problem.
"It'll come back. As long as it's nothing organic." Then she proceeded to tell him of the various procedures that had been developed by the medical profession. "I've serviced men with implants and pumps."
"Do they ejaculate?"
"Yes, they do," she said, going into details on how these devices worked. She seemed expert on the subject.
"Very informative," he acknowledged.
"A man has it tough," she told him. "He just can't fake it."
In a strange way he felt relieved that nothing had happened. This couldn't count as unfaithful. After a while they got dressed and talked about contemporary artists.
"I'd like to see your work sometime," he told her.
"And I'd be grateful," she said.
By then nearly two hours had passed, and he told her that she had better get going. He also told her he appreciated her understanding and, of course, her knowledge. That in no way mitigated his utter sense of hopelessness and failure. This had been a terrible idea, a desperation measure, and it left him more depressed than ever.
She kissed him on the cheek as she left. "Don't worry," she whispered. "I'll be as quiet as a mouse." He listened, heard the elevator move in the shaft. Again he had forgotten to tell her to use the stairs. It was as if he consciously wanted to be found out, to be caught.
From the window he watched as she went out the door and
headed quickly toward Second Avenue, losing her in the parade of pedestrians. Relieved, he washed, then quickly but carefully straightened the apartment, and, as if he even had to exorcise her aura, he sprayed the apartment with Lysol. Then he let himself out and walked down the stairs. There no longer seemed any need to be cautious.
He got down the front steps okay, then suddenly his attention was arrested by something in the tree. Turning, he looked up. That damned cat. But there in the window of her apartment, looking directly at him, was Jenny Burns. Yet neither of them made any effort to acknowledge the other. No nod. No smile. It was as if both of them were determined to render themselves invisible.
If only you knew my pain, he said to her in his heart. It is not at all what it seems.
Then he turned away and hurried down the street toward Third Avenue. He did not look back, but he could feel Jenny Burns's eye observing him as he fled.
3
JENNY met Myrna Davis, who lived in apartment 3 directly across the corridor from the Richardsons, when she went upstairs to deliver a package from Bloomingdale's that she had consented to take when the Bloomie's delivery man rang her buzzer one afternoon. That was another thing that being home most weekdays entailed. She was open to delivery men leaving packages or messages.
"Oh, my God, my shoes," Myrna exclaimed, taking the package from Jenny. She was a tall, very attractive brunette in her mid-thirties with an air of cocky assurance and a bearing to match.
"I'm Jenny Burns down in apartment one. The driver left it with me. I was home, you see...."
"You can't imagine how much I appreciate this, Mrs. Burns," Myrna said, offering a plastic smile with just enough warmth to show gratitude but not friendliness.
"Jenny. We've just moved in and—"
"Well, I do owe you one, Mrs.... Janey."
"Jenny, and don't mention it."
"It certainly was nice meeting you, Jenny."
"Same here"—Jenny hesitated before continuing—"Myrna."
Giving one the right to use one's first name was, in Jenny's value system, a transaction that made first-name use acceptable to both persons.
Further conversation was deflected by the ring of the telephone from the interior of Myrna Davis's apartment.
"Damned phone," Myrna said, shaking her head and offering what was clearly a mock look of exasperation. From that expression, Jenny deduced that Myrna was relieved by the interruption.
"Well, it was nice..." Jenny began, letting the sentence drift away.
"Thanks again," Myrna said, the plastic smile disintegrating as her life apparently turned to more pressing events.
"Don't mention it," Jenny said, feeling suddenly awkward, hating the idea that she was repeating herself, nodding and smiling with more energy than she wished, then backing away. What had she expected? she wondered, trying to shake off an undeniable sensation of intimidation.
"In love with her own self-importance," Larry told her at dinner that night after she had reported her encounter with Myrna Davis. "I was married to a journalist, remember. I know the type well. All of them are ambitious, self-centered bitches."
His inflammatory comment made her regret that she had recounted the incident in a negative way, and it had slipped her mind that he had once been married to a journalist. Actually her comment about Myrna was only mildly negative. She had merely mused aloud that it would have been a nice gesture on Myrna's part to have invited her inside the apartment, not simply letting her stand in the hallway like some messenger boy.
She acknowledged to herself that perhaps she was also reacting to her own irritation, independently of Myrna Davis. Her prime rib had been overcooked, and the chocolate soufflé had collapsed. Larry, too, was in a bad mood, having fired one of his assistants for a sloppy interpretation of demographic information during a pitch to a major client. He had called her from the office to vent himself, as he often did, and to lift his spirits, she had planned this special dinner.
"Overdone," he had complained, forcing a tolerant smile. At that point she had told him about the incident with Myrna, realizing instantly that it reflected other irritations as well, both past and present.
"She could have had a lot of things on her mind," Jenny said, retreating. After all, the telephone had rung and that became a priority. Or did it? It always upset her to think ill of people before giving them a fair chance to absolve themselves. Myrna had not been impolite, merely self-absorbed.
"The issue is that you went out of your way to be nice. Am I right?" Larry pressed.
"It seemed like the neighborly thing to do," Jenny pointed out, knowing she was setting him off again on his favorite subject: staying clear of the neighbors and minding one's own business.
"It was neighborly," Larry assured her. "And look where it got you."
She had not told him about Godfrey Richardson's paramour. He might have called her a gossip, a term of opprobrium she did not wish attached to her. Her mother's characterization of gossips was people who suffered from boredom and got their kicks creating negative and mostly false ideas about people. Jenny agreed, and she did not want Larry to put her in that category. She was not bored. She liked running her little household, despite the prevailing attitude of women her age.
"She's a hotshot magazine editor for Vanity Fair, which puts her right up there with the worst of them," Larry went on. "Probably thinks she's on the cutting edge of trendy, and with people kissing her butt most of the day, she's lost any connection with reality."
"That seems a wee bit harsh, Larry," Jenny said, pouring the last of the wine into Larry's glass.
"I know the type well. Superior. Deliberately intimidating. Too sophisticated for words. She continues to be uppity, I just won't recommend any more advertising buys for Vanity Fair. I happen to have a bit of power in that department. The agency does do some business with that book."
"I could be misinterpreting her attitude," Jenny said, fearful that she had done enough to stir his hostility. "I think she was just rushed."
"Sure, rushed," Larry said. "She wouldn't be so rushed if she knew what I did for a living."
Why couldn't he stop? she wondered. Myrna hadn't been that rude.
"I really don't think she warrants that much anger, Larry."
"That's because you've never really been exposed to people like that. I have. She's one of those ball busters. Trust me. I know these career-obsessed women. No softness. No sweetness. Hard-edged. Experts at the put-down. Never give you the right time." Suddenly he mimicked in falsetto, "Oh, so you're Jenny Burns, the sweet little housewife in apartment one. How wonderfully quaint."
"She didn't say anything like that," Jenny countered. She was getting confused by Larry's overreaction and decided that she had best deflect the conversation. The soufflé having collapsed, she had put together a quick peach melba.
"I hope you like this as a substitute," she said, beginning to eat hers. She concentrated on the taste. "Not bad if I say so myself," she said, looking across the table at her husband. He hadn't touched his dessert.
"You're so damned naive, Jenny. You think all the people in this town are as honest and forthright as the folks back home. They aren't. Why can't you take my advice? Believe me, I know. Why open yourself up to insult?"
"It wasn't exactly—"
"Oh, yes, it was," Larry remonstrated. "You can't deny it, Jenny. No way."
She studied her husband. What was going on here? She felt terrible for pushing him into a foul mood. She remembered her mother's prescription for dealing with a husband in a funk. "Tiptoe through the tulips until he works it out of himself. He's probably reacting to something at work and is using the subject at hand to vent his anger."
"Eat your dessert, Larry. You're missing out on something good," she said pleasantly, hoping to close the issue. She spooned up the last of her peach melba. He still hadn't touched his.
"I think you should stop serving desserts," he said, patting his flat stomach and getting up from the table. "And stop b
eing Mrs. Goody-Goody."
He couldn't seem to get it out of his mind, which was disturbing. She tried another tack.
"Are you saying, Larry, that you would not have accepted the package?" Jenny asked. It came down to that, she had decided.
"Probably not," he declared. He had gotten up from the table and had begun to unbutton his dress shirt in preparation for weight lifting in the bedroom. "In fact, I wouldn't. She should have had it sent to her office. She knew she wouldn't be home for a Bloomie's delivery, which happens only in the daytime. She also probably knew that you were the only person in the building who didn't work."
After he had gone into the bedroom she began to load the dishwasher, mulling over his comment. Not work, she wondered. Then what is this I'm doing?
Sometime later, after she had cleaned up the kitchen, she found him in the bedroom lifting weights. She sat on the bed and watched him, a process he greatly enjoyed. After a while he turned to her and she could see that his mood had changed.
"Like what you see, baby?" he said.
"Love those buns," she told him coyly.
"Then come on over and butter them up."
She did, watching the activity in the two standing mirrors.
It was, in fact, impossible to ignore the other tenants. Despite all Larry's caveats, she was not the kind of person who could pass someone in the hallway, turn her eyes away, and refuse to acknowledge their presence. Admittedly the episode with Myrna Davis, particularly Larry's reaction to her explanation of it, made her a bit gun-shy.
There was also no way not to observe them or to prevent herself from speculating about their lives. For example, there was Teddy Stern, who lived with his parents in the apartment on the third floor, the only floor that contained only one apartment.